Finnegans Wake is not a novel....No! No! Finnegans Wake is
a poem, it's a symphony by a modern atonal composer. It's an assembly
of language tying together floating evanescent ideas. It's a long rapid
eye movement dream, it's a marathon technicolored musing that might have
been induced by mescaline or LSD...It's a seemingly reckless careening
through English and other languages. Yet you know that every word
has been considered in this hodgepodge potpourri of miscellaneous and
not always aligned thoughts and ideas, in this flamboyant and brilliant
linguistic exercise that mimics the intensely illustrated pages
of a medieval Irish manuscript. It's a massive rap, as in rapper, as in
street talk, as in lingo, as in the heat of the day and the cool of the
night captured dreamily and melodiously in words of all shapes and
sizes. It's a mirage.Do not read FW. Feel it. Dip into a page, any page, and if you find something that lights up your synapses, enjoy it... Read Finnegans Wake on any page at any time, and listen to it. Feel the words in your mouth and smile. But above all else: feel it in your spirit.